Confessions
by LionAmongTheSheep
Summary: Italy surprises Germany and ends up confessing to him in his drunken stupor.


Italy liked doing nice things. He liked getting up in the morning and dedicating an entire day to simply making someone else happy, even if it took him effort, which considering how little effort he put into training and basically anything that wasn't cooking or running away from enemies, was really saying something. He just liked it. He was definitely the type of person that absorbed copious amount of joy just from someone else's smile. Even an aura of contentment could work wonders on his attitude.

This was even truer for those he had a deep and solid relationship with, friends or family both considered, or frankly anyone he cared about. Romano always received more hugs and closeness than he liked to admit, though Italy could always tell that he liked it even though no one else did. He was actually very perceptive in that sense. Even Japan would receive, awkward on his part, hugs and long drawn out but enthusiastic conversations from the bouncy Italian though he opted to simply listen and nod along with a smile. He deeply enjoyed hearing Italy speak, for it was a nice change from the quiet and serious speech of his native people.

But there was only one person in the entire world that Italy would do anything to make smile. He would do anything and everything he could possibly manage, and probably even more after that just to make this person happy. Even though Italy knew that Germany liked him as his ally and friend, and appreciated him even though he didn't actually help in fights and always needed saving and bandaging up, he still wanted to make the blond happy. Because, truthfully, Italy had never seen Germany REALLY smile. Not fully.

So, laying in his bed one warm and absolutely impeccable summer afternoon after he'd had a very relaxing nap, he decided that he wanted to do something nice for Germany that day. He knew it would be something small. It would be something mostly insignificant. Something that Germany could probably do better himself and would end up being a waste of effort on Italy's part. But he'd try.

He would cook for him. Now, normally, Italy knew, he would probably just make some kind of pasta and bounce excitedly to the door when the German got home to relay to him the fact that he'd made pasta (again) for dinner, so Germany should hurry and wash up so they could eat, because it smelled so good and he'd even bought fresh cheese! But not today, he decided as he resolutely hopped down the stairs to grab his coat.

Knowing both that Germany would be at a meeting until late and that Germany had only foods he enjoyed at his house, Italy, with his spare key that the blond had shyly handed over, headed over to Germany's house. It took him a while to get there, but he enjoyed the outdoors and all of its niceties. It was a beautiful summer day, and there was not a reason in the little honey-haired boy's head that he shouldn't enjoy it.

Eventually, he got the Germany's house and let himself in, pocketing his key and flipping the lights on as he hung his coat by the door. Now, Germany had said to only use the key in an emergency, but really, he should have known that Italy would come over more often than not now.

As he went into the kitchen to search through the fridge and pantry for food to cook for Germany's dinner, he began singing softly to himself, swaying and dancing around the kitchen as his voice grew more and more boisterous and happy. He was, in a sense, high on joy. Simply being in the German's home, surrounded by warmth and scents and atmosphere that were all _Germany_ made him so incredibly weightless. It didn't even bother him that he would probably be reprimanded, albeit lightheartedly because Germany had too much of a soft spot for Italy and everyone with an ounce of observatory skills could see that.

He continued dancing around the kitchen, deciding on what he knew he couldn't mess up and what he also knew were the German's favorite foods. Wurst and potatoes were foolproof. Right? He shrugged to himself, beginning his endeavor into cooking German food. It started off well, and he smiled softly as he cooked, letting his mind wander. It was, in fact, what Italy was best at.

He, as a nation and as a person, was very romantic. Not as romantic as France, or possibly even Spain, though he was _passionate_, and he happened to know that there was a difference. On that note, he was hopeless when it came to love. He loved almost everything. Except maybe Russia. But he did love Germany, perhaps more than was healthy. The man made his eyes light up brighter than they already did, his heart leap up to the starry night sky whenever he would meet him at one of their houses for dinner, even make him want to become stronger. Germany made Italy breathlessly lost, and Italy wasn't sure he wanted to find his way again.

He knew a long time ago that he loved Germany. He loved him more than the stars crave to meet the Earth when they crashed blindly through the atmosphere and instilled the wistfulness of wishes on many, loved him more than Romano loved a crisp red tomato on a summer day as he lie in the dewy emerald grass of morning. He loved him more than Prussia loved his birds, his face softening into something akin of need and friendship and comfort that only few ever saw, loved him more than Austria loved playing his piano in the great room as the ceiling high windows poured in sunlight that ravished the sparkling tiles in warmth and glittering sunlight.

He loved him so much that it hurt, and he would never tell him. He couldn't.

However, this didn't affect his sunny disposition, even as he stood in the house that leaked Germany from every floorboard and faucet and fabric of the curtains and sofa and carpet. Everything he ever needed, he had, so he would never ruin it with those three words that sat perched at his tongue like Gilbird on Prussia's wintery hair. He was happy as it was now, cooking sausages and potatoes in wait for a most likely exhausted blond to come home.

It wasn't until an hour later, when he was just finishing the cleaning and setting the table, that Germany walked through the front door and Italy heard a resigned sigh when he assumed Germany realized he was in the house. Italy, as unobservant as he seemed, knew which sighs and grunts and murmurs meant what, and he could tell that Germany was too tired to really care that Italy was there. In fact, Italy dared to think, he sounded relieved in a way. But that was probably just his imagination.

When Germany entered the kitchen, he did seem somewhat surprised, first scanning over the neatly set table and rack of drying and already washed dishes before looking over to Italy who stood smiling, yellow apron tied loosely around his lithe frame. His mouth quirked up just a tad at seeing the honey locks tied back with a white bandana, his rebellious curl sticking out from under it.

"What are you doing here, Italy?"

Italy giggled and pulled off the bandana, turning around to grab two potholders to bring the platters of food to the table. He gestured grandly to the full table and grinned proudly.

"I made you dinner! I came over because I wanted to do something nice for you and since I had just taken a siesta I felt really happy and energized so I decided to make you wurst and potatoes. I know you probably get tired of pasta at my house so I decided to make something that you really liked and, well, honestly this seemed to be the only thing here."

He nodded in confirmation at his own ramblings, rocking back expectantly on his heels with a childish grin asking for acceptance of his actions. Finally, to his sheer joy, Germany smiled fondly and reached up to place his hand on Italy's head the way he does when he is either proud or appreciative of the Italian and Italy couldn't help but press upwards into the touch. The contact made him so happy.

After they both washed their hands and Germany changed into something more comfortable than his stuffy suit, they both sat down to eat. Germany looked slightly skeptical about Italy cooking German food, probably afraid he'd put a bunch of garlic on everything. Italy shook his head slightly with a quiet huff of a laugh, poking a sausage and putting it on his plate. Silly Germany, so cutely uncomfortable with everything under the sun.

Once the blond had cut a piece of sausage and popped it in his mouth, however, his icy eyes widened a fraction and he stared at the meat on his plate with a questioning gaze.

"Italy, this is . . . very good. It's better than when Prussia and I make it, actually. What did you do to it?"

"Ah, that's a secret, Germany! If I told everyone how I cook things then it would never be special now would it? Oh! I almost forgot! I brought wine with me, but I know that you don't really like wine so I'll just get you a beer from the fridge!"

In fact, Italy had grabbed a bottle of one of his better wines before he left, feeding his habit of always having to have wine with dinner. At least he didn't have it with breakfast and lunch as well like Romano did.

Smiling brightly at the way everything had worked, he opened the fridge to pull out a beer and the bottle of wine. After placing the beer next to Germany, who nodded happily in thanks with an uncharacteristically full mouth, he poured himself a large glass of the deep red liquid. He took an experimental sip, not having had this kind before, and felt his stomach warm. He nodded to himself at the taste, sweet and heavy on his tongue, just the way he liked it.

Two sausages, a heap of potatoes, three glasses of wine, and a lengthy conversation later, Italy was feeling warm and relaxed and blissful and just all around fantastic. Being somewhat of a lightweight, even though he drank wine more than an average person, he was already adopting a very slight slur and dusty pink cheeks as he animatedly spoke to Germany about Mr. Greece's cats. Germany, having had three beers and not ending up affected at all, just nodded along. Italy found the way the German was currently cradling his cheek in his hand and staring ahead at him very cute and extremely, unnervingly attractive. So attractive, in fact, that he found himself reaching across the small table to latch his hand onto Germany's forearm and grinning slyly.

"Germany, how do you get your arms so big? Your forearm is the size of . . . of my leg. Wow."

A blush erupted on Germany's cheeks, which did nothing but egg on Italy's growing brevity.

"U-um, I lift weights with Prussia. You're usually there with me, shouldn't you know?"

"Yeah but, I don't really pay too much attention because, well, I usually take a siesta but, most of the time I'm thinking actually."

Italy giggled a bit, resting his head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling his ear into the fabric of his shirt. He felt his eyes getting heavy, but he wasn't really ready for bed yet. He wanted to stay with Germany!

"Germany, y'know I like you a lot. Yeah."

Germany's face grew a bit redder, but his expression was soft.

"Yes, Italy, we are very good friends, and you don't need to worry about that ending like you did last time."

Italy shook his head, growing groggy and unintelligible.

"No Germany I love you. Like, so much. More than pasta and siestas at the same time."

Italy sighed in content, like the weight of an elephant had been taken from his chest and shoulders.

Germany spluttered and stammered, not knowing exactly what to say. Italy had just confessed to him, and it was incredibly embarrassing and strange . . . but at the same time it was so cute that Germany could barely stand it. He did, in fact, requite these feeling. However, being as socially ungraceful as one could be, and a bit too awkward to bring such things up, he never said anything. But now he didn't have to be the first one to say anything. But Italy was drunk, wasn't he? Did he really feel like that, or was it just the wine talking?

Germany shook his head in resignation, knowing truly that Italy was never really any different when drunk except for the increase in chatter and a light slur. He'd been telling the truth, how he really felt, and for that, Germany couldn't stop smiling.

He looked across the table at the now sleeping Italian and sighed fondly, standing and putting the leftovers away and the dirty dishes in the sink before walking back to the table to pull Italy up into his arms. When the other's head lolled against Germany's chest, he daringly leaned down to kiss the sun kissed skin of the Italian's forehead as he carried him upstairs to his room.

Since they'd slept in the same bed on many, many occasions, Germany felt it completely normal when he got Italy into the nightclothes he'd started leaving at his house and tucked him into his bed, climbing into the other side quietly. After he fell asleep, he was only woken up once that night by Italy clinging to his broad back, burying his face in the black under shirt.

The next morning when Italy woke up, he knew that he was in Germany's house, and that he had slept there last night. He sighed and tried to sit up, only to find himself stuck under a large pale arm, the covers tangled in his skinny legs. He turned his head slowly and his face erupted in a blush for the first time in a very long time. He wasn't usually embarrassed, but now, with Germany's peaceful face and un-gelled hair in such close proximity, he couldn't help it. He could tell that their bodies were pressed together under the entanglement of blankets, and just when he didn't think it would get worse, memories of the night before came crashing down on him.

He'd confessed to Germany. He had told him that he loved him, and now he wasn't sure what the German thought about it. Obviously he wasn't angry, judging by the way they were basically clinging to each other. But did he reciprocate those feelings? Did he even take him seriously? He groaned and covered his eyes, melting back into the sheets.

The movement must have woken Germany, because when Italy removed his hands from his eyes, his gaze was met by crisp blue irises and a very soft expression that Italy was not used to seeing on Germany's features. He panicked.

"A-ah, G-Germany! G-good morning! I'm uh, I'm really sorry about last night! I just-"

He was shut up with a very soft, very chaste, but incredibly powerful kiss to his still rambling lips. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, like a wind that could conjure tornado or waves that could crush cities was blowing him right off of his feet. It was indeed crushing, but lifting at the same time. It only lasted a few seconds, but he was speechless nonetheless.

It was Germany who spoke first.

"I do hope that what you said last night is true, and it was not just the wine speaking for you. I must admit that I am happy that you confessed first, Italy."

He blushed and became more and more hesitant as he spoke, his awkward demeanor poking through once again. Italy shook out of his stupor and cracked the biggest grin he'd ever felt his lips stretch to. It almost hurt, but a good hurt. He found himself rolling over to lie flush against Germany's chest, kissing him again sweetly.

"So, does that mean . . ."

"Ja, Ich liebe dich, _Feliciano."_

And Italy simply melted.


End file.
